Saint of the Gutters

"Saint of the Gutters"

*A poem inspired by a photograph in honor of the beatification of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, September 4, 2016

By Katherine Harris Szerdy

More inspiring than the most eloquent sermon

Are the tireless feet of the Saint of the gutters, 

Soles, never supported by Sketchers or Asics, leathery,  thickly calloused from decades spent ministering to the poorest of the poor on unnamed streets in Calcutta, 

Toes, arthritic, gnarled from years of gripping the edges of thin-soled sandals, 

Nails, yellowed, ridged, never painted or pedicured, always pointing in the direction of the Lord's work, 

Heels, rough,  scarred, never--no not once--elevated by Prada or Marcus Jacobs, 

dig determinedly into dirt parched by drought, as she stoops to meet the gaze of a tiny, frail girl, abandoned and homeless,

Or scoop out of a trench the skeleton of a man, naked, skin caked with sun-baked excrement. 

Those tiny feet, 

Feet of a fisherman, 

   of a fisher of men,

   of a saint, 

A sight so hideous yet radiant with the holiness of one whose compassion oozed through her pores

Like the perfume of angels

A sight that could reform the hardest heart, 

Heal the most deep seated pain

Mend the most broken marriage

Shatter the most stubborn stronghold 

Of addiction, of shame, of fear and of hate.

Tiny ordinary feet of a woman who did everything with extraordinary love

Tiny feet belonging to a saint

In a blue and white sari

With well-worn sandals, 

This Saint of the Gutters

who left shoes too large to fill

By any man

And an example for 

Every man to emulate.

Stuffed: the Psychological Profile of an Extreme Hoarder

By Katherine Harris Szerdy

She who grew up during the Great Depression

and the Second World War,

In the shadow of the Diamond Alkali's smokestacks, 

   Ash raining down upon rooftops

In a village with a church and a bar on every block

 

She who grew up within

stone skipping distance of Fairport Beach 

On the southern shores of Lake Erie,

In a loving home with two parents, 

Four brothers, a sister and a dog

 

She who hid behind a perpetual smile,

who attended church every Sunday,

a teetotaler whose drink of choice was

a cup of Tetley with milk

like her English father

 

She who was the obedient one, 

who never cursed or smoked,

the third daughter but the first to survive

Diphtheria,

who struggled in school while her

siblings excelled

 

She who died a little inside

the Christmas Eve her brother,

so handsome the girls in town swooned as he passed,

a veteran of the war and the first to

graduate from college,

the hero of the family,

fell asleep at the wheel,

killing his fiancé and himself

 

She who married a 

     handsome

         hot-tempered 

              hard working 

                   honorably discharged

           Army Sergeant who rarely missed a day

at the Diamond

 

She who died a little more inside

the day her mother, her protector,

went into cardiac arrest following a simple

surgical procedure at the age of 52

 

She who was a meticulous housekeeper and

loved wedding white and

         milk glass and

    blonde furniture and

         Jack and Jackie Kennedy

    and bed dolls dressed like brides and southern belles 

 

She became a hoarder,

First filling up one house

So they bought a bigger house

-- she filled that one too

    With knicknacks and

    Magazines and

    Avon cosmetics and ...

Eventually the stuff, like an amorphous

creature with seven pairs of arms 

pushed away those who loved her,

replaced those who loved her  

 

Now she is gone.

A white graduation tassel,

A copy of Little Women inscribed by her mother,

A broken Timex stopped at 4:47

A divorce decree

and a mound of bills are

All that remain of a life of 81 years,

All that remain of 8 decades plus one.

 

Was it the Great Depression

Or the deaths of dear ones

Or a doting parent afraid of losing another daughter

Or a chemical imbalance

Or the devil himself 

That made stuff

Her drug of choice, 

That fed the dark creature

With a voracious appetite, 

Was it the persona or the shadow

    Chance or choice,

    Nature or nurture 

that pushed who she was created to be

over the edge,

    down

        down

            down

                  into the delusion that

we are happy by what we acquire

not by who we appreciate.

The Diamond

My father, Stanley James Harris, gave 29 years of his life to the Diamond Shamrock, fka the Diamond Alkali, until 1976 when they rolled up the bankroll and headed south, leaving in its wake hundreds without employment, an environment rippled with toxic waste, tens of thousands with lung and genetic disorders, and a burden on local, state, and federal taxpayers to clean the lake and scrub the land.  My mother, grandparents, uncles, neighbors, fathers of classmates worked there, too.  Nearly everyone in my hometown was related to or knew someone who worked there. 

 Not a fun place, but this is what our Dads, Uncles, Grandpas, Mothers,, Neighbors-- hard working Americans-- did.  The aftermath of World War II ushered in an era where farmers struggled to make a living; while industry offered financial security and the opportunity of a fresh start in the suburbs. For us Baby Boomers, this is part of our story--a tie that binds--and a tie tack as proof.

Winter Clings

By Katherine Harris Szerdy

Single solitary snowflakes drop 

        pause 

                  slide 

A lovely dance paced against the backdrop of

a Pastel sunset.

A scattering of gentle silent spinners

float playfully like downy milkweed

Flit here, flit there 

     Sassy

          Syncopated

as though they had wings and conscious intent,

Lighting upon the fence post until

A slight breeze resumes their choreography

     Down

         Down

                Down

         to the dried leaf of last year's hosta,

Gliding to the ground like a downy feather of a baby sparrow nesting in the birdhouse I built with Papa last spring and

Nailed to the trunk of the old oak

Whose bark, if you stare at it intently

Resembles an old Iroquois chief winking

As winter clings but springtime claims

Its territory

Its time.

Copyright 2016 by Katherine Harris Szerdy